


Handkerchief

by courageousfuck



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9650774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courageousfuck/pseuds/courageousfuck
Summary: Set in Simon and Baz's First Year at Watford. In which Baz and Simon have a 'little tiff' that ends in tears.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the part in Carry On in which Simon says that Baz dropped a handkerchief on Simon's bed the first time he made him cry in First Year. Also I'm pretty sure Simon says that Baz had used Cat Got Your Tongue on him before, so it's sort of based on that too. Yeah. Is this angst? It might count as angst? I'm unfamiliar with angst so I'm sorry just in case.

I can’t stop looking at him. Why can’t I stop looking at him? Maybe I’m drawn to his magick – all that power would get into any mage’s head; it has definitely got to mine after having to live with him since the very first day here. 

Simon Snow. He is a mess, and an absolute waste of space at Watford. He undeniably has a lot of power, what with being the ‘Chosen One’ and all, but Morgana be damned if he could ever control any of it. I can feel it now, rolling off him in huge waves, sparks falling dangerously only _just_ short of my bed. It’s making me uncomfortable, what with being flammable and all.

“Will you stop that, Snow,” I snap. He looks at me then, with those hopelessly plain blue eyes. I can almost hear the blood coming to the surface of his tawny skin as he turns an unattractive shade of red, blotchy on his sunken cheeks. He still hasn’t filled out yet. Snow looks half-starved, and ridiculously scrawny for a boy who is meant to save us all, which only fuels my belief that he will fail pathetically when we eventually have at it. 

Aunt Fiona told me that I am to fight him when the war inevitably begins, and that my ‘duty as a Pitch is to annihilate anyone working for the Mage’. She also said that the Mage is a tyrant and that he usurped my mother. (If that part is true then I shall kill him myself, one day.)(I said this to Fiona, who looked very happy about it. I don’t want to let her down. I won’t.)

“I can’t help it.” Snow mumbles it, clearly irritated. He isn’t much of a talker. I don’t think he even physically _can_ speak at times. It’s like there’s a blockage in his vocal chords. Though sometimes _I_ can get him to talk – if I wind him up enough, I can get him to _shout._ It’s an oddly satisfying experience, the ability to get him so _angry._

I smirk. (It annoys him, always.) “Fantastic. Do let me know when you manage to set the whole place on fire, won’t you? I’ll need to know the right time to lock you in.”

And it begins. “Shut up, Baz. You – you aren’t – you’re not funny.” Redness clouds the room ever so slightly, a sure sign that he’s starting to get pissed. “Sod off,” he throws in for good measure. 

“What a brilliant retort, Snow. Now, why don’t you calm down? I don’t think the Mage will be very happy that his new pet loses control so _easily.”_

“Stop it. You… shut up about the Mage! Stop –”

“– However will your precious Mage tame you? It must be difficult to live up to everyone’s expectations of the –” I make air quotations with my fingers “– ‘Chosen One’ when you yourself are so very dim as to burn out all your magick every time you so much as stub your toe.” 

If Snow isn’t careful, he will go off right now in our room and destroy everything in it, including me. He’s about as stable as a grenade, already so mad he can’t even fight back, and I _know_ that playing with fire is pretty dumb for a Vampire, but… “I wonder how the Coven would react if they knew that _poor_ Snow, the Mage’s heir apparent, is unable to do even the simplest of spells? It’s no wonder to _me._ You can barely even _talk,_ and when you do it’s quite incoherent.”

_Finally,_ he jumps up and shouts. “Shut _up,_ Baz! Just because I don’t sound like a bloody extra on Downton Abbey! You – you’re just a posh twat! I – I mean – God _damnit!”_ His voice rises to a frustrated scream. _“What does ‘incoherent’ even mean?!”_ He is striding towards me, so I get up from my bed and stand right in front of him, looking a fair few inches down at him. (He’s a runt, honestly. An absolute midget.)

“Am I? Or do I just apply a little something called ‘enunciation’ when speaking? Maybe you should try it – maybe then you could actually get out a spell,” I sound very bored, yet he reacts like I’ve punched him. (If I were to punch him, then I would do so right in his jaw. He mainly communicates with his jaw. He pushes it forward when he doesn’t get his way. He tenses it whenever I’m around, as though my very presence is testing his patience.) (He’s tensing it now.) Fortunately for him – or unfortunately, depending on how you care to look at it – I prefer to fight with my wand, anyway. I draw it, letting it hang loosely in my grip. Snow could snatch it right now, if he were so inclined – or had the mental capacity. He doesn’t. 

“Perhaps this will help you appreciate your consonants a little more, Snow.” He’s too thick to realise what I’m doing.

“What will?” Bewilderment paints his face red, his eyes wide and blue, blue, blue. 

In seconds, my wand comes up, twirling to meet his mouth. **“Cat got your tongue.”**

He lets out a strangled cry before it cuts off into nothing. He tries to cough, clutching at his throat and gaping at me in alarm. He opens his mouth, tries to yell at me, but only short, gasping breaths come out. He looks like he’s having some sort of panic attack, which, I tell myself, is none of my concern – I instead let a vicious satisfaction take over any guilt. 

His eyes glisten, watery and weak, and it’s at this point in which Simon Snow distracts me from any thoughts of victory by swallowing a great gulp of air before promptly bursting into tears. My eyes catch on his throat, adams apple bobbing as he swallows down a silent wail. He sort of flops onto his bed in apparent despair. 

Although I am rather surprised that Snow is _actually crying,_ I try not to show it by fixing him in a scornful look. Snow refuses to let go of eye contact, despite his glare being buffered by tears blurring all the blue. I hold his wet gaze with as frosty a look as I can muster while dipping into my blazer pocket, fingers grasping what I’m looking for. Pinching it between two fingers, I toss it right on the end of Snow’s bed. He breaks eye contact, distracted, the confusion seeping into his expression followed quickly by irritation as he sees what it is. 

Holding it up between us, expecting me to take it back, Snow looks with disgust at the monogrammed handkerchief crumpled in his calloused hand. He eyes the initials stitched on the side and then back at me in a sort of disbelieving hatred. 

I cock one eyebrow at him. “Feel free to keep it. I think you need it more than I do.” I throw a pointed look and a sneer at the tear tracks on his face, which sends him flushing angrily again. Turning on my heel and striding out of the door, I contemplate how I feel about reducing Snow to tears; coming up blank. The word ‘smug’ seems appropriate, though, so I settle on that for the moment. 

Well. At least Fiona will be pleased.


End file.
